


Snow & Fire

by KnightOfTheBurningTree



Series: The Rise of The Dragons [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Post-Canon, Post-Series, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 06:28:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2057403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KnightOfTheBurningTree/pseuds/KnightOfTheBurningTree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Third part of The Rise of The Dragon series</p><p>Melisandre POV </p><p>Melisandre reels from the news in Ramsay Snow's letter that King Stannis is dead before all hell breaks loose at The Wall</p><p>Post-ADWD AU *Possible ADWD Spoilers*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Snow & Fire

Melisandre I

It could not be. The letter that Lord Snow had read must be a fake. She would not believe that her King had fallen; she had to reach her chambers and search for him in the fire. The Lord of Light had to grant her a vision of the truth. 

She had departed the Shieldhall as cheers and shouts had erupted from the men of the Nights Watch and the wildlings who had assembled to hear the Lord Commander's plans to rescue the wildlings at Hardhome. The Bastard of Bolton's letter had inflamed them but she had only felt a cold chill when she heard the words Lord Snow read. _Your false king is dead, bastard._

She knew that she had made mistakes in the past when it came to reading the visions in the flames, but could she have erred so greatly? How could she not have foreseen this? 

Her guards followed closely at her heels as she headed back to the Kings Tower but she froze as shouts echoed across Castle Black. She turned her gaze to its source, Hardin's Tower. She walked closer to where the scream had come from and by this time Lord Snow and a few men had come out. The giant had a knight in its grasp and was repeatedly swinging him back and forth against the grey stones of the tower. She watched in horror as bone and blood flew in all directions.

"Its Ser Patrick my lady" said Morgan, one of her guards. How Morgan could tell who it was, was beyond her, the giant had left little to identify Ser Patrick of King's Mountain. She was frozen in place watching the giant roar until she heard the bellowing roar of Tormund Giantsbane, what she saw next only served to make her more confused.

The Lord Commander was on his knees surrounded by his own sworn brothers, daggers in hand, all coated in blood. _Daggers in the dark._ The future she'd tried to warn Jon Snow about had finally come and in its wake, chaos erupted. 

Tormund and a group of wildlings had left the Shieldhall in time to see the brothers of the Nights Watch attack. Her guards moved to stand before her as Tormund lead a charge across the snow to rescue Jon Snow, roaring in fury as he ran with blade in hand and his son Torregg the Tall, Soren Shieldbreaker & Borroq in tow. The mutineers turned barely in time to face the oncoming charge of wildlings. Tormund slammed into the Lord Steward, Bowen Marsh, knocking him bodily to the ground. The Lord Steward scurried out of the way quickly enough to avoid the sharp cruel steel of Tormunds sword from taking his head. His fury was unmatched as he scattered the mutineers and stood over Lord Snow to protect him. He spat and bellowed, “Crow filth! Is this how you treat your Commander!?” 

I must act before it’s too late. She moved forward confidently, her long legs setting the pace as she strode to the fallen Lord Commander with Morgan & Merrel in tow. The last thing I need was for these two to be drunk on a day like this. She whispered to them as they walked, “Do not draw your blades but keep your wits about you, these men are ready for a fight, all they need is a spark.” She uttered a silent prayer, Lord of Light, protect us. These men may be drunkards with questionable faith but they were all that stood between her and the darkness of death.

She called out in a calm and cool tone, “Tormund.” The great wilding raider turned towards her and watched her approach. “If you mean to harm him woman, neither those dogs at your heel nor your fire god will stop me from spilling your blood on the snow.” She smiled warmly, seductively. She could tell that Lord Snow’s time with the wildlings had enamoured him to the raider. “You have my word Thunderfist, I mean no harm to Lord Snow, I have the power to return him from the darkness that seeks to engulf him. There is no time to waste though, step aside.”

He stared at her with a cold look of contempt and slowly stepped aside, allowing her to kneel at the boy commander’s side. His eyes were closed and he was hardly breathing. The snow had soaked up large amounts of his blood and in the cold air, his numerous wounds were smoking though she paid little attention to it. She turned to her guards, “Run to my chambers, tell Devan to bring the small wooden chest and, I will need a fire. Now.” They knew better than to delay on carrying out her orders. Morgan left to bring the squire while Merrel stood guard over her with Tormunnd. Drunkard though he may be, Merrel was fearsome with the ax he had in his hands and she was glad he was sober enough to wield it. She laid her hands over the boy’s cold body and prayed softly. Lord of Light, hear me now, grant me the power to return Lord Snow from the clutches of your mortal enemy whose name we should never speak. Bring him back to your warmth and light. She was so engrossed in her prayers that she had failed to realise that the mutineers had not retreated as she had hoped. 

They had formed up and meant to press their attack on their commander, they were outnumbered by the wildlings but they showed no fear. Bowen Marsh stood at their fore and yelled, "For the Watch!", before leading his men to attack the wildlings. The sounds of steel and the shouts of men in battle bounced of The Wall and echoed across Castle Black. The only sound to match them was the continued shouts of the giant, Wun Wun who still clutched the destroyed body of Ser Patrick like some gruesome ragdoll. The wildling known as Leathers was trying to placate the beast in the Old Tongue. 

Her squire, Devan Seaworth was running towards her with a torch in hand and the small chest tucked under the other one, at his side, Morgan struggled to keep pace with the youth. He drove the blazing torch into the ground and placed the carved chest before her.

She retrieved the key from the secret pocket hidden in her skirt and opened the box to remove a smaller wooden box that contained a fine green powder that she quickly tossed into the flames of the torch. The flames shot up quickly with a green flash before settling and emitting a thick white smoke. 

She bowed her head and placed her hands on Jon Snow's chest. She started to slowly recite a prayer in High Valyrian. The smoke flowed like a melting ice river towards his body, she could barely feel his breathing through her sweaty palms. Her whole body had began to react to the sorcery at hand, the ruby at her throat started to pulse hard and brightly, burning her skin as she continued to pray. 

The smoke reached his nostrils and he breathed it in slowly, she continued to pray as the smoke filled his lungs. The sounds of the men fighting still surrounded her though she could not afford to lose focus on the task at hand. 

Her concentration broke when the Lord Commander bolted upright with her hands still on his chest, his eyes wide open and ablaze, in the light of the green flame, his eyes shined an eerie purple and stared right at her though it was clear he could not see her. 

"Jon" she whispered. 

His eyes shut as quickly as they had opened and he fell back down to the ground, his chest still. She could feel no movement of any kind and she knew he was dead. 

Her head fell forward on to his chest as a tear slowly ran down her left cheek.


	2. The Ghost & The Winged Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon learns the truth of his origins from Bran

Jon I

The white direwolf raced across the snow, running past tall twisted trees in a dark forest that seemed to never let any light in. 

_Jon_

The voice was faint but the wolf felt it more than actually heard it, echoing in his head.

_Jon_

It was louder this time. More urgent. He recognized it now; it was his brother, the one who smelt of summer. The white wolf stopped short, lifting his head to the canopy of trees above him, he could not see the sky. He could see little past a few paces through the trees. But he could feel the voice and he knew in which direction it came from. It was one of the three that he felt connected to, as scattered from the others as he was. His sister was far to the South, leading a pack of their cousins, but as alone as any of them. His wild brother's presence seemed close but felt so faded. 

_Jon!_

He ran frantically towards the call of his brother, through the trees that started to enclose around him. He felt the snow beneath his paws and felt the cold sinking into him. The trees felt closer, twisted branches reached for him, pulling at his fur as if they were hands intent on ensnaring him, but he kept running.

_JON!_

He broke through the trees into a clearing and came face to face with a single weirwood tree. Its pale limbs stretched towards the sky, covered with blood red leaves. The face on the tree was one he knew and though he'd seen it like this before, it was still strange to see his little brothers face with a third eye.

"Bran?" he said softly. And with the words came the knowledge that he was no longer a wolf. No longer Ghost. He stood on his own two feet, clad in the blacks of a Sworn Brother of the Nights Watch. He stepped towards the tree slowly. "Bran? Is that really you?" 

_Yes Jon, it's me._

The voice was still more in his head rather than spoken aloud. He'd never heard his little brother's voice sound so sad before. "Where am I Bran? What's going on?"

_What's the last thing you remember Jon?_ He sounded even sadder, if that was even possible. "I... I was at Castle Black. Wun Wun, the giant, he was..." he closed his eyes tightly as if to try and recall what happened, but he couldn’t. The memories lay hidden in a fog that wouldn’t clear. 

_Jon. You were attacked, I'm so sorry Jon, we have little time and there's no easy way to say this but, you're...dead._ Jon opened his eyes as the fog cleared. He remembered Wick Whittlestick swiping at his throat with a dagger. Instinctively his hand went up to his neck but there was nothing there. He remembered the tears on Bowen Marsh's face as he drove a dagger into his belly, and another knife in his back and cold. He remembered feeling colder than he ever had. He shivered from the thought. He looked at the tree and Bran's face was twisted in pain, thick tears flowed from his main eyes, blood red tears. "Dead? No, Bran, no! I can't be dead, I... I have to save Arya! I can't leave her at Winterfell with that monster!" 

_Jon! Arya isn’t in Winterfell. She's further away than you think but, she's safe. She..._

"Safe!? How can you be sure? How is this even possible Bran? How do I know this isn’t some fever dream?" 

_Jon, you have to trust me. Please. Please listen to me. You are dead. Your mind is temporarily trapped in Ghost's body. I can help you get back to your own body, unfortunately we only have a short window of time before you are permanently trapped in Ghost so, I don’t have time to explain everything. There are things I need to show you, things you need to know._

"What sort of things? What could be more important than explain how you're planning on raising me from the dead?" 

_Who you are and what is coming._

Jon straightened his shoulders and spoke firmly, "I know who I am Bran, I'm the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. I'm the Bastard of Winterfell. I'm your brother."

The blood red sap began to flow more heavily, tears rolling down Bran's wooden face. _I'm so sorry Jon. You are not my brother. Please, let me show you the truth. Close your eyes._

Hesitantly, Jon closed his eyes and waited impatiently. He was surrounded by complete silence. The tell tale sounds of a forest were non-existent. No trees rustling in the wind, no birds calling from the trees, no small creatures scurrying in the underbrush. The silence was unnerving. 

"Bran?"

_Open your eyes Jon, we're here._

Jon opened his eyes. "Here? Where are-" he stammered as his eyes took in the scene around him. Though he'd never actually attended one, Jon knew a tourney when he saw one. The stands filled with people, numerous banners flapping in the wind, the tents that housed the various knights who would compete in the tourney. All in the shadow of a castle that was bigger than Winterfell.

"Is this Harrenhal? Bran, why did you bring me here?" 

He looked around and saw no sign of his brother, only a direwolf that stood silent by his side. It looked exactly like he imagined Summer would look, boasting the exact same silver grey colouring as his brother's wolf. 

Except for the wings.

The direwolf sported a set of great wings that were pressed against its sides. As strange as they were, they seemed natural on the wolf. 

_Follow me, Jon._

The winged wolf walked slowly through the tents of the knights, headed towards were the jousts took place. The tents were mostly empty, only the wounded knights and those who attended them remained. He spotted banners and emblazoned shields that he recognized and some he could never hoped to place. The great houses were represented; golden roses, black stags, leaping silver trout were present as well many lesser noble houses. From the battlements of the great castle flew the black bat of House Whent of Harrenhal that he only knew from Maester Luwin's lessons. Above them all flew the one banner that continued to draw his eye, not only because it was being flown nearly everywhere he looked but because it was a banner that had not been seen in the realm for many years. The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. The sight of it filled him with a deep sense of dread.

Jon stopped suddenly and crossed his arms across his chest, fixing the winged wolf with an angry stare. "Enough Summer, or Bran or whatever you are. I've seen enough. I'm not taking another step until you explain what's going on here." 

The wolf turned its great head slowly, staring back at Jon with eyes that shone a bright yellow.

_This is the great tourney of Harrenhal, hosted by Lord Whent during the year of the false spring. We are here to see your father. I will explain all as we go along but we cannot afford to waste time Jon._

Bran's voice echoed in his head. He resented the way Bran said, "your father" though this was not the time to argue. He couldn’t bring himself to accept what Bran was saying but he followed as the wolf kept walking. 

As they approached, he could see that a joust was already in place. A knight in enamelled white armour was waiting as his squire brought him a fresh lance. The knight still had his helm on so Jon could not put a name to him. Across the field, in armour that was a direct contrast to the white knight, was a knight mounted on a stallion as black as his amour, the only colour on him being the blood red silk cape that hung from his shoulders and the rubies that shone as bright as fire on his chest. As they got closer to the stands that looked directly down on the joust, he could make out the features of the black knight. He wore neither helm nor crown but his bearing spoke of royalty. His hair was long and flowed down past his shoulders in a luxurious cascade. He couldn’t see the knight's eyes clearly but Jon was sure they were the violet eyes of a Targaryen. 

"Rhaegar! Bran, that's Rhaegar Targaryen!" Jon could barely contain his excitement. He had always admired the Targaryen princes. They were all legends in his eyes. Good or bad, from The Young Dragon to Baelor Breakspear to The Last Dragon, stories of the Targaryen princes had always been his favourite. 

Bran did not seem to share his interest in the silver prince. The wolf stood still, its eyes were locked on the stands that were reserved for the noble houses. Banners hung around the sections for each house. The wolf of House Stark ran alone across its icy white field, surrounded by so many southron banners. He focused on the people in the Stark section. He could make out 3 men and a woman seated near the front. Jon could see his father clearly, he looked younger than Jon remembered but he had the same serious look on his long face. Seated to his left was Uncle Benjen, looking younger still. Having never met them, Jon could only guess as to the identity of the other too. The oldest of the Stark's was tall and well built. Brandon Stark had a goblet of wine in his hand and was looking lustfully at the serving girl who was refilling his wine. 

This left the lady, Lyanna Stark. Jon could see now why many compared Arya to Lyanna, they shared similar features. Lyanna was more of a lady than Arya though. She carried herself like one but it was clear there was more to her than just needlework and dancing. She had the eyes of a warrior. She looked over the joust like one who was assessing their foe across a battlefield. 

Shouts and cheers from the crowd drew his attention back to the joust. Rhaegar and the white knight were racing down the field, lances cocked. The white knight rode hard, leaning forward in his saddle, his lance as steady as a rock. To say that Rhaegar rode beautifully was an understatement. Helmed once more, riding atop his black stallion, he seemed to be one with the horse and at the moment before impact, he shifted his seat deftly, catching the white knight's lance on his shield as his own point struck his opponent squarely in the chest.

The stands erupted as the white knight hit the ground. Common folk and nobles alike cheered as Rhaegar tore of his helm and raised his fist in victory. Ever the soul of chivalry, he rode over to check on his opponent, calling to the crow to pay their respects to the white knight. 

"Three cheers for Barristan the Bold!"

The crowd loved him, continuing to cheer and scream his name as he claimed the crown from the queen of love and beauty. Jon knew what came next. The reason for Robert's Rebellion against the Iron Throne. He watched as history played out before him. Rhaegar rode past his beautiful Dornish wife, and the crowd started to die down. All eyes were on the silver prince as he rode up to the she-wolf and placed the crown of blue winter roses in her lap.

Before his eyes the world seemed to fade. The bright colours of the tourney faded to grey then slowly to black and he was left alone, surrounded by darkness. His last image being Lyanna's face, filled with dread at the crown in her lap. 

_You have seen enough. I brought you here to see your father and you have, at his most defining moment. The moment he made his affections for your mother known to the whole realm._

Jon's mind was slow in comprehending Bran's words. "No. You can't mean it. I'm your brother Bran. I'm your brother!" 

_I'm sorry Jon. Rhaegar Targaryen is your father and Lyanna is your mother._

Jon fell to his knees as Bran's words washed over him.

"So what!? Even if what you say is true, what difference does it make? I go from being a Stark bastard to being a Targaryen one. From a Snow to a...a... Blackfyre!? " 

_You are not a bastard Jon, you never were. You are Jon Targaryen, trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne._

Jon lifted his head in the darkness as tears streamed down his face, to reply to the invisible voice of his brother, "How? How is that possible? The whole realm knows that Rhaegar kidnapped Lyanna. I know he kept her locked up in some forgotten tower in Dorne. I know she died there."

_You know nothing Jon...Targaryen. Let me show you the truth._


	3. The Ravens & The Flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melisandre attends Jon's funeral

Melisandre II

Her chambers were dark save for one slim tallow candle and the glowing embers of the fire in the hearth. She had asked to be left alone and had dismissed the squire Devan and her guards. She sat in an old chair close to the hearth with the candle and a flagon of wine on a small table to her right. In her hands was an near empty goblet though it had been refilled many times already, she grabbed the flagon and tried to refill it once more before realising there was little left to do so. She screamed wildly as she flung the empty flagon into the dying fire. 

Never before had Melisandre felt so lost, not since before she had first entered the Red Temple and learnt the ways of the Red Priests of R'hllor. Her hair was a fiery mess that hid her face as she hung her head in shame. The wine was strong and sour and had begun to numb her body though her mind was quite active. 

_Jon Snow is dead._ It kept replaying in her mind but she still could not believe it. Her thoughts dwelled on the smoke that had failed to do what it was meant to. It did not heal him and return him from the darkness as she had prayed for. All it had served to do was turn the flames green and cast a purple light into Jon's eyes. _His dead eyes._

Melisandre shuddered as she remembered, a cold shiver racking her body. It had been so long since she had felt cold. Her body was always warm from her love of the Lord of Light. But she no longer felt his love and the cold had started to set in. She knew she should relight the fire but she could scarcely move from the old chair. 

She had fallen to his chest and cried softly, not for Jon but for R'hllor. She had failed him more than she had failed Jon Snow. _Or had he failed her?_ No. She could not allow herself to think like that, not after all she had seen and felt. Not after all she had endured. 

A knock on the door broke her away from her thoughts. "My Lady?", it was the young squire, Devan Seaworth. 

"Go away boy"

"My Lady, it's time. They're taking Lord Snow's body to the Weirwood grove."

It was time for him to be given to the fire. She could not stay away from that. Even though she'd warned him of the _daggers in the dark_ , she felt guilty about his death. Mostly she felt ashamed that she could not save him. 

"Give me a moment Devan"

She rose slowly and prepared herself to face the world before walking calmly out her chambers into the bright white snow that covered Castle Black. Her shivered as a gust of wind blew across the Castle. She walked down to the yard and was quickly followed by her sworn shields, Morgan & Merrel. 

The procession to the Weirwood grove had already begun. Most of what remained of the Sworn Brother's of the Night's Watch was mounted and leading the way for Lord Snow's body. His body was being carried by a mix of Black brothers and wildlings. Tormund Giantsbane was leading with Satin, the Lord Commander's steward. The silent Direwolf, Ghost walked behind them and turned his head to face her. His red eyes looked into hers and she felt another shiver go through her. 

Ghost was followed by Queen Selyse and Princess Shireen and the few men that had remained to protect them, the rest having ridden off to Winterfell to find out the truth about The Bastard of Bolton's claims. After them, came the wildlings, some of whom had come all the way from the newly garrisoned castles to see the man who had allowed them into the realm. She joined the procession after the wildings. 

They walked in solemn silence to the weirwood grove where the men of the Night's Watch had built a pyre for their commander. They laid him on top of it, clad in all black, his Valyrian steel bastard sword Longclaw was laid on his body, his hands clasped around the hilt. 

She moved closer to the pyre, wrapping her shawl tighter around her body. The wind was blowing from the North, blowing through the trees, scattering the dark red leaves across the grove. Her eyes scanned the scene. The brothers of the Nights Watch, the wildlings and the queen and her party were all arranged in a circle around the pyre. 

Selyse Baratheon stepped forward and in a clear and strict tone, called out to her knights, "Bring him forth."

Being dragged between two knights, one being Ser Brus Buckler, the former Lord Steward, Bowen Marsh had seen better days. After the mutiny, the Queen and her men had taken control of Castle Black, holding Bowen Marsh responsible for organising & leading the attack. Marsh had been imprisoned in the ice cells and the cold had taken its toll, that and the wounds he'd suffered in the battle had left the steward a weak and shaken old man, murmuring to himself as if the cold had addled his thoughts. The men-at-arms had to half carry him to the pyre and with a nod from the Queen, began to tie him to it. 

The ropes tightening around him served to clear his mind and he started to shout out louder, "For the Watch! It was for the Watch! Please!" 

His protests did little more than earn him a cuff from Ser Brus, which served to keep him quiet and return to his murmured protests. 

Normally, the sight of a man being prepared to face the flames was more than enough to excite her but Melisandre only felt colder at hearing the mans protests bringing about a moment of confusion in her thoughts and judgement. _Was this the right way? Should I stop this?_ She shook her head to clear her mind and pay attention to the sworn brother who was now addressing everyone.

The steward Clydas was a short homely old man who tended the ravens in place of a real maester. Clydas had been spared from the fighting by hiding amongst his ravens. That they would choose such a man to speak for Jon Snow showed how badly the Nights Watch had suffered from the mutiny.

"He came to us from Winterfell, in the heart of the North. A bastard of Lord Eddard Stark and half-brother to the King in the North, Robb Stark. He was an accomplished young man who served faithfully as Lord Commander Mormont's steward. He saved The Old Bear's life from an attack by a wight. It earned him the respect of th men and the Lord Commander's sword, Longclaw. When his lord father was denounced as a traitor, he stayed true to his vows and joined in the Great Ranging. He volunteered to ride with Qhoren Halfhand to scale the Skirling Pass and discover the truth behind the gathering of the wild...urm free folk." The old craven cleared his throat and tried to avoid the gaze of the wildlings.

"When Qhoren tasked him with infiltrating the free folk, he did not balk from the task and posed as a turncloak to gain their trust. He climbed the wall! He showed his true colours when he captured the King-Beyond-The-Wall's wife and child. When he was voted in as the 998th Lord Commander, many questioned the decision. He acted with honour till the end. We shall never see his like again, for now his watch has ended."

The remaining brothers sought to reply with the traditional, "Now his watch has ended" but were drown out by the howl of Jon's Direwolf. 

Melisandre had never heard a more lonely and morose sound. 

As if called by the wolf's howl, a large raven landed on Jon's body. Before anyone could make a move to remove the bird, it hopped across his body, landed beside his head and delivered three short pecks to Jon's forehead, right between his eyes. The shouts raised by the men served to scare the bird off into the weirwood trees where more ravens were perched. 

Everyone had been so engrossed in the funeral that they had failed to take note of the funeral's other attendantsl. The ravens had slowly and steadily begun to fill the pale branches of the trees since Jon's body had arrived and more birds were still flying in.

"I... I think that was the Lord Commander's raven.", explained Clydas.

The birds now held all the attention as all eyes were focused on them. The ravens were filling the trees in the grove. For the first time in years, Melisandre felt fear. Not since she had stood on the auction stand and suffered the gaze of slave masters on the naked body. Not since she had been introduced to R'hollor and his love. The small beady eyes of the ravens were locked on her, as if they could see through what men did not.

"King!"

A scream from the ravens that had everyone eyeing the trees. A talking raven was nothing new to her, Melisandre had heard the Old Bear's raven before. It was always present in her meetings with Jon Snow. For the first time though, she took notice of the bird and felt something she had never felt before. A dark presence. An intelligence that no bird should possess.

The booming voice of Tormund Giantsbane broke her out of her trance, "The old gods are with us! They are watching over us! Let us put an end to this."

The wilding raider stepped forward with a lit torch and put it to the kindling that surrounded the base of the pyre. The kindling was slow in catching, so Tormund walked around the pyre, lighting it at various points, before stopping at Bowen Marsh to spit at his feet with a curse, "Crow filth!"

Slowly, but surely, the flames started to build around the pyre. For a moment, the flames had her enraptured. Eyes locked on the burgeoning fire, Melisandre was desperate to experience the visions that R'hollor provided her with. Most of all, she was desperate to feel warm again. 

The crows seemed determined to tear her focus away. Their number had swelled, filling the boughs and smaller branches of the weirwoods, circling around the grove, cawing relentlessly. 

"King!"

"King!"

"King!"

As the flames rose around the pyre and Bowen Marsh's scream began, the ravens continued their relentless chant. Her eyes scanned the trees, watching this unnatural chorus of birds. She closed her eyes in another desperate attempt to concentrate. 

_Oh Lord, a glimpse is all I ask for. A glimpse of the future, of your power. Please, do not forsake me now._

An intense heat from the pyre wafted over her, causing her to open her eyes again. Too late to realise that the fire had grown out of control. Everyone else had backed away from the flames that now seemed to rise almost as high as the trees. Bowen Marsh's screams served to drown out the sounds of the ravens. 

A white hot core rested at the centre of the growing inferno. Melisandre stared into this centre and prayed once more. _Lord of Light, please show me the way, show me the truth. Show me your chosen saviour. Show me Azor Ahai._

Melisandre stared into the flames until she felt she would go blind from the effort, the heat had grown so fierce. A blinding light radiated from the core of the flames. She turned from the fire in defeat, not having seen a thing. 

"My lady, look."

Devan's presence at her side had gone completely unnoticed until he spoke up. She turned to look at him to see him staring at the flames with his mouth gaping open. Returning her gaze to the flame once more, she understood the boy's reaction. 

From the white hot core of the fire, Melisandre spotted the outline of a man standing in the flames. At first, she thought it was a vision from R'hllor until she saw the man moving. Moving closer to her until he had cleared the flames.

Jon Snow stood as naked as the day he was born. His hair had been burnt off, though his body showed no other signs of being in the midst of the inferno. In his hand he held a sword. A sword that burned a bright white, with pale flames surrounding the blade. 

She fell to her knees before him, not realising that behind her everyone had done the same. Men & women. Men of the Night's Watch, the Queen & the Princess, all her knights and men-at-arms and even the Wildlings were all on their knees. 

"Azor Ahai has risen!"


	4. The Smuggler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davos Seaworth braves the dreaded island of Skagos to find Rickon Stark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slight but necessary detour from Jon's story

Davos 

The old smuggler reached up to his neck for the leather pouch that housed his missing fingerbones and for the hundredth time since this journey began, his hand came away empty of the luck he sought. His luck was gone and he needed it now more than ever. It had been 6 weeks since he set sail under the cover of darkness from White Harbour. 6 weeks since he'd been made the captain of one of Wyman Manderly's new warships. 6 weeks of dread at what was ahead of him.

He stood on the deck of the _Wild Wolf_ , a 100 oar galley that had been named in honour of the boy he sought. It was one of 5 ships whose names were inspired by the children of Lord Eddard Stark. The most impressive being _Grey Wind_ , a 300 oar war galley that was the pride of Lord Manderly's burgeoning fleet and named after Robb Stark's direwolf. It was eerily modelled after King Stannnis' _Fury_ and included a deck of scorpions just like her. The Wolf Pack as it was known, all had silver grey hulls and decks and raised white sails with the direwolf of House Stark emblazoned across them. The only other 100 oar galley in The Wolf Pack was _Summer_. The remaining ships boasted 200 oars and were named for _Nymeria_ and _Lady_ for Arya and Sansa respectively. 

Davos Seaworth nervously prowled the deck of this new ship, the first time since the storm that had hounded them for 5 days had broken. The sky was still a dark and troubled grey, though the sea was calmer than it had been. He checked for any damage and aside from a few broken railings and one deck hand who had been swept overboard, the _Wild Wolf_ was still intact. Davos was impressed with Lord Manderly's ship. Though he'd been named captain, he couldn't think of this as his own ship. His position as captain was a temporary one, born out of the need for a seasoned captain. _A seasoned smuggler_ , he thought bitterly. That was his true purpose here, to be a smuggler. King Stannis had raised him from smuggler, to knight, to lord and King's Hand and he'd fallen all the way back down to a smuggler again. He hoped that this time His Grace would thank him without shortening any more of his fingers. After all, if he returned with the boy, King Stannis would have the gratitude and loyalty of Lord Wyman Manderly and possibly the entire North for returning one of the presumed dead Stark boys. And with this fleet, they could finally place King Stannis on his rightful throne. 

"Land Ho!" 

Davos snapped out of his reverie and turned towards the prow. They had finally broken through the rings of storms that seemed to perpetually surround the island. The call had drawn the attention of the entire crew to the deck. Through the clearing mists, he could see the massive mountains that made up the dreaded island of Skagos. Sharp jagged rocks filled the waters that surrounded the island. It would be impossible to bring the ship any closer to shore. He gave the call to bring the ship to a stop and drop anchor. 

"Wex!" He called out to the mute squire, "Come here lad"

His new squire, for this journey at least, was a slim bodied youth with a sharp, almost feral face. Wex was Ironborn, formerly a squire to Theon Turncloak and a mute, which made communicating with the boy difficult at times. 

"It's time lad. I hope you're ready for this. There is little time for us to begin our search today. This far North and with it being Winter, we won't have much daylight left. Enough for us to make it to shore and set up a camp for the night. Can you handle that?"

If he had any objections to the plan, he could hardly express them, a firm nod was his only response. Davos had no reason to doubt the boy's courage, his own though was another story. He'd faced a great deal in his many years, seen things he'd never thought he would but nothing had ever terrified him as the prospect of what he might face on Skagos. 

And so Davos found himself sitting by a small fire on Skagos, in the company of Wex and 3 men-at-arms. Three was all he could bring, because only three were willing to be brought along. He could not blame them, if his duty to King Stannis did not require him to make this journey, he would have refused without a second thought. Wex was stoking the flames of the fire, the men had already fallen asleep. Davos had decided to take first watch, mostly because he found it hard to fall asleep in this place. Since the moment they had landed on the island he felt like they were being watched, and with night fall, that dread had only increased. 

Every minor sound caused Davos to look around frantically. Even the sounds of the waves brought him no comfort, the crashing of the waves against the rocks was hostile and angry as though growling. "Growling" he whispered softly. "That can't be, the sea would never-"

Before his words were out of his mouth, a great black shadow leapt out of the darkness, the boy Wex barely got to his feet before the shadow took him down. Davos drew his sword and bellowed at the sleeping men, "Up! Up! We're under attack!" 

His warning came too late, for in moments they were surrounded. Davos could barely make out the faces that peered at him from the edge of the fire's light but there was no mistaking the glint of spearheads that were pointed at him. Lord Manderly's men-at-arms were being held down by large men with sharp stone daggers at their throats. Wex faced the worst fate, for a giant black wolf had him pinned down, growling menacingly at the boy. 

Davos pleaded with the stone like faces that leered at him. "Please, call the beast off. The boy is innocent." The only reply was a male voice, not deep enough to be of a grown man, speaking a tongue Ser Davos had never encountered in all his years. "I-I don't understand."

"The Magnar says the boy is far from innocent. His scent betrays him for what he is, a son of the ocean. Of the same ilk that betrayed his family and took his home." The new voice belonged to a tall, lean woman with a spear just as tall as her. 

"Who are you?" asked Davos. A cold laugh from the woman preceded her reply, "It is you who should be naming themselves, kneeler" 

Davos doubted that his titles would impress any of the stern faces that surrounded him. "My name is Davos and I've travelled very far in search of someone." Again, the young voice replied in that strange tongue and again the woman translated. "Who is it that you seek?" Davos hesitated to reply. Was it wise for him to show his hand so soon? He had no idea who these people were, telling them of Rickon Stark may be the wrong choice. 

Impatiently, the young voice let out a torrent of harsh sounding words and before Davos could ask for an explanation, two men seized him, holding him tightly and stretching out his hands before him. The woman came forth and peeled of his gloves, tossing them aside and exposing his hands. "Shorthand," she whispered. 

A low growl came from behind the woman as the black beast approached him, it's great jaws red with blood, bright green eyes shining in the firelight. _Mother have mercy, its a direwolf_. 

Davos had never been more afraid as the wolf came closer and started to sniff his left hand. It took him by great surprise when the wolf began licking his shortened fingers. It was then that a figure emerged from the darkness and placed a hand on the wolfs great head. A boy, tall for his age, with a string of bones and shells around his neck. Fierce blue eyes stared at Davos and his long shoulder length hair shone red in the light of the fire. 

"We have been waiting for you, Davos Shorthand."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of the hardest chapters I've had to write so far. I hope you enjoyed it. The next chapter will return to Jon's story. Comments and kudos are always welcome.

**Author's Note:**

> The Dragon needs 3 heads.
> 
> I hope to build the rest of the series around that in these 3 parts centering on Aegon VI, Jon Snow & Daenerys. More chapters coming soon


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